When Demons Are Redeemed: The Dominant's Muse

Twelve - Lovely

TWELVE

Lovely

As Tristan and Catherine stand within the grand hallway of the luxurious mansion, she knows that she has a moment only to process all that she has just learned. And to accept it. To adapt.

I am a submissive. Tristan is my master. According to fixed rules now. And I am to be a totem this weekend. A very odd kind of totem, she thinks to herself, struggling. 

Since the contest is imminent, she turns her thoughts to it first and screams out to herself that she does not want to spend forty-eight hours one-on-one with Tristan, in a bedroom somewhere in this immense mansion, while he ejaculates on her repeatedly and “creates.” As for the broader, now defined master/submissive relationship, she pushes considering it, and its implications, out of her mind for now.

An image of the power and of the abundance of the caged man’s climax as he spewed right up to the ceiling of the cage returns to her. One master, one canvas. One master, one canvas, she repeats to herself, as a comforting fact for her to hold on to. But just how much sex is that? How many tricks? “Even” is . . . He killed one of his employees tonight for no good reason, and, just like that, she was gone from this world, because he values human life so very little. So then, since he threatens my life regularly, and as he is the artist, and I am his . . . She stops, her thoughts refusing to be completely formed. This will happen. I have no say. There will be “art” upon me. But it will be over in forty-eight hours, she attempts to hearten herself. I won’t get hurt. It’s just sex. It’s just come. And when it’s time for the judging, when men obviously have to see me naked, then I’ll just control myself and not panic and . . . How many judges can there be, who will see me? A handful? Just a handful? She adds to herself, the thought of being nude before even just a handful of men nevertheless most alarming to her.

Fearful of that moment, she takes a deep breath, and is reminded that bruising any man’s ego here, before his peers, would be a very stupid thing to do. She is then prompted to consider the especially dangerous consequences of an attack upon, or even just a slight to, Tristan’s ego in the presence of the other masters. She is further warned that his power not being supreme in the way that it matters the most this weekend -- that is, over her -- would no doubt result in a dear price to pay, one billed to her account. Finally, a humiliated Tristan would of course be most dangerous, and, therefore, his submissive must be submissive in every way, while among this group of most wealthy, most powerful males.

This weekend is no time to test his patience, and to risk his temper making an appearance when it can be so easily further fuelled by the masters all around him. The pack. If I mess up, to save face he’ll do who knows what. So I have to not mess up. I get it, Catherine thinks to herself, her heart nevertheless racing since “getting it” does not mean that she will manage it. I must get myself into the right frame of mind, and put my first reaction to this competition behind me. I must be “even.”

The thing is, however, that “even” is what most often accounts for those occasional deviations of hers from Tristan’s rules, since too “even” is too chill, and since too relaxed is bolder. If she were to be severely upset, on the other hand, Tristan’s reaction to such unacceptable emotion and behaviour would rein her in immediately.

I’m stronger now, aren’t I? A whole year with Tristan and his demands,  and what you protect in the vault, safe. I can handle this. Being kept apart from the other men here, that’s a good thing. It’s just ejaculate, if I don’t let it mean anything more.

Then your mind isn’t his. It has to mean more.

I can fake it, now that I know that I have to, she replies.